


Disparity

by AvaKelly



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Comicon, Cosplay, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious, Sickfic, Talk of mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-07-27 17:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16224002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: Amerihawk Week 2018. This is one continuous story, with plot points based on these prompts:Day 1. Roommates or Meeting on a Blind DateDay 2. Everyday Heroes or SuperheroesDay 3. Pain or PleasureDay 4. Smut or FluffDay 5. Historical or FuturisticDay 6. Love at first sight or Hate (that turns to love) at first sightDay 7. Versions aka free for all (any version of Clint/Steve be it MCU, 616 etc)





	1. Roommates

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone o/
> 
> Here we go, starting Amerihawk Week. I hope to make it in time every day with a new chapter. The plots have been laid out and I'm aiming for around 1k for each day, but you know how it goes with work. Crossing fingers!
> 
> Currently not beta'd. Maybe it will be later. 
> 
> Enjoy!

For October, the day is sunny, wonderfully so. The window is halfway open, letting in chilly air, but the kitchen is filled with a warm golden glow of autumn sunlight. Outside, in the distance between tall buildings, there's a patch of orange from the trees in the small community garden nestled there. On the other side of the apartment, through the living room windows, there are more rust colored trees, a few yellow, and in some places there's even a little bit of green.

Right now, though, Clint wants to sit in the kitchen, where there's hot coffee and Steve and the lingering smell of breakfast.

At the sink, Steve washes their plates. The muscles of his back flex and shift under the thin t-shirt he's wearing and Clint's never been more grateful that Steve seems to run hotter than other people. He pulls the heavy sweater closer around himself, shivering with goosebumps. Steve is… he's more than just something pretty to look at, and Clint's eyes sting at the thought.

He met Steve in March, on a stupid day that left Clint covered in raw egg and with a bruise the size of Texas on his torso. His former roommate skipped town because he owed money to some tracksuit mafia dudes, who, of course, came after Clint to settle the score. Clint settled them, alright, but then he had to find another roommate and fast. He would've turned to Nat or Bobbi, but the past taught him they're incompatible at sharing spaces. Nat's still his best friend and Bobbi's still his best ex. That's it, though. Clint needs someone that won't put up with his crap.

And Steve? From the moment Clint laid eyes on him, Steve was kind of perfect.

Sure, no man or woman or anything-in-between-folk can ever be perfect, that's a safe bet. But Steve comes damn close, at least for Clint.

First, he's a bonafide real-life Captain America. Steve even looks like the actor that plays the superhero. And! His name is Steve Rogers. Clint might have or might have not ribbed him about it. Steve might have been annoyed, a little bit, although he was more amused than anything. Second—and third, and fourth, and Clint's lost count—Steve is kind, and helpful, and a little shit, has problems with authority, even stops on the street to yell at bigots. Sure, Cap's just a minor character in the Wonder comics, but Clint's read everything and he likes the symbol behind it. Steve, sometimes, feels like the real world embodiment of that sentiment.

Clint loves him.

No, actually, he's _in love with him_.

It's why, on this wonderful morning, Clint wants to cry while watching Steve wash the dishes. Everything is so domestic, so comfortable between them. Except… Steve doesn't see Clint like that. He jokes with Clint, smiles in all the right places, pokes back when they play videogames huddled on the floor. Yet, he doesn't open up. Doesn't talk about himself, and his friendliness, while genuine with complete strangers, feels forced when he's interacting with Clint.

He doesn't stand a chance and his chest aches with it.

~

Steve doesn't really remember what happened. One moment the alarms were blaring throughout the SHIELD barracks, the next he was lying on the pavement with curious onlookers taking pictures of him. Clearly _something_ must've happened to cause him to end up here, wherever _here_ is. Maybe he's in a coma and his unconscious mind came up with this place to keep him sane.

Whatever it is, it feels real enough. He's breathing, he gets hungry, and all the other stuff a living body needs. His strength is not dull, his old illnesses have not returned with a vengeance, and this is important because… well, here things are very different than back home. Here, Captain America is a comic book character. Steve Rogers doesn't exist, not as a real person, he's checked. On that very sad note, there is no James Barnes either, and the only Samuel Wilson he finds online is an Air Force Major that looks nothing like Steve's Sam.

The technology is different from what he's used to back home, and there are no Asgardians visiting Earth, nor is there Stark tech infusing the market. There is, however, a Tony Stark, genius billionaire, but he's running a company with his father. Steve's not sure what the company does, and yes, he did try to contact this world's Tony. No success. The man is unreachable. Besides, Steve doesn't think he could be able to help, not after running into Clint of all people. That day in March, two months after arriving here, Steve started to finally understand how different things actually are.

How much disparity he's facing.

This Clint is an easy-going self-deprecating guy with a penchant for breaking coffee mugs. He's younger, too—a couple of years younger than Steve actually—and not the hardened agent Steve knows and respects. Not that this world's Clint is not worthy of respect. He's carrying with him the same sense of justice the other Clint does. It's just… he's a different person. He runs a website on pizza and archery for heck's sake and although he exercises just as much as the other Clint, this one does it for fun and not weighted by the danger of missing his target.

Clint, here, is friends with Nat, just like back home. This Natasha, though, speaks with a heavy Russian accent and teaches ballet at the community center. She cracks bad joke after bad joke, is a huge comics nerd and likes to slap Steve on the shoulder right before inviting him to join their group outings. Which would include Bobbi—Steve remembers meeting Agent Morse briefly at some point—and some kid named Kate who's determined to one up Clint in the amount of bandaids she needs on any given day.

They are so free of all the Avengers crap that Steve aches. Sure, they have their own issues, but nothing from what he knows happened back home. He yearns for this sort of normalcy. Just to be a guy with a hot roommate-turned-boyfriend and their ragtag friends.

Which brings him to the real problem. This Clint stole Steve's breath half an hour after they met and to this day keeps chipping away at Steve's defences.

At this rate all of his heart will be in Clint's calloused hands before the year ends. However, Steve might have to leave, go back, to the war and the threats looming over their world. He doesn't know what brought him here, and he doesn't know what will rip him away from this warm place.

So he keeps his distance. Keeps Clint at bay even though he sees the way Clint's face crumples when he thinks Steve isn't looking. Even though he knows, without a doubt, that if Steve were to make a move, he'd be welcome.

It hurts, but it's the only way to protect Clint.

~


	2. Everyday Heroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, day 2!  
> Again, it's not beta'd at this point (but it was sensitivity read in certain important places).  
> Enjoy o/

Clint pulls at his bowtie with a whine and Nat sends him a sharp look, one that seems worried that he's going to bolt before even entering the gates of the decrepit chemical plant. 

"It's cold," Clint says, but doesn't stop or even linger behind. Instead, he picks up his pace so that he falls in line with Nat. 

"Just two hours, da?" Nat murmurs as they draw closer to the ruckus and lights of the party. "Besides," she continues, a little louder this time, "you pine after Steve—

"Not pining."

"—to the point of becoming hermit. Is not healthy, Barton." She gestures ahead. "This will cheer you up. Maybe you can meet someone—"

"I don't need anyone."

"Clint."

He knows he sounds like a petulant child, and he almost crosses his arms, but they've reached the entrance, or at least what serves as an entrance into a place with no doors, and he stubbornly shuts his mouth. The large dudes there are wearing flowers in their beards and are handing out simple masks to go with the guests' overly formal suits and dresses. Clint whines again, silently this time. Nat's right, but he doesn't want to think about it, because then he might have to accept that he should move on from Steve. 

Truth is he's come here for her, because this is a fundraiser for a string of community centers around the city. Bobbi was supposed to come, but she's stuck at work and Nat has asked Clint to charm people out of their money for a while. It's not hard, he mostly has to sit there and smile and let people see his purple hearing aids, maybe flex his biceps for a select few. Clint's a pragmatist when it comes to this, and besides, he likes to keep Wade company—because Wade is a hilarious asshole—who, while in his wheelchair, is shamelessly squeezing the rich bastards for all he can get. He's been battling cancer for a very long time, sometimes he goes in remission, other times it comes back. Wade breaks but then he puts himself back together and Clint admires his strength. When he lost most of his hearing, he wasn't in a good place…  _ not _ the time. Not tonight. 

Wade waves at him from between two schmucks and Clint grins back as he tries and fails to fix the mask on his face. 

"If I wear this, do you think I'd look like Zorro?" he asks Nat. 

She rolls her eyes and smacks at his arms with a smile. Soon after, she's mingling, drawing people out, smiling sweetly. Clint watches her for a bit, her movements almost dance-like, eerie. Maybe she's a fairy. A Russian, scary, swearing-like-a-sailor fairy. He snorts and pulls his attention away. 

Clint's not sure why they're out here in the old industrial district. Nat explained, but he only pretended to listen. Maybe the location is cheap, or maybe it's some move to get extra funds, which as admirable as it is, it doesn't lower the creepiness level of the space. Gaping holes filled with darkness lurk at the edges of the crowd, and there's even a frikin' pool. Right there! Industrial pools are not for swimming, are they, although this one is filled with water. Sure, it's pretty, what with paper lanterns flowing with warm glows over the surface, but it also looks deep, like the maw of the void, waiting to swallow the first moron that jumps in. 

With a shudder, Clint steps away, intend on finding the bar sooner rather than later. A stray though passes his mind, then, that this is when things usually go sideways for him. The moment he notices some possibility of injury, that's when—

_ Splash! _

Aw, futz. Someone screams, and yet none of these idiots is lifting a finger to help whoever's in the water. Clint sighs and becomes the second moron to make a close acquaintance with the depths of the pool.

~

If there's one thing that Steve hates to wear, the old tour costume notwithstanding, is dress shoes. Dress shirts, too. Somehow—yes, he even tried one of Tony's super expensive ones—they're all scratchy on him. The bowtie seems sentient in its intent to strangle him, but the shoes. They're the worst and stupidest shoes to ever come with a fancy outfit. Worse than sneakers without shoelaces that fall off his feet as he runs. Right now Steve can barely walk. 

And he's a damn supersoldier. 

At least Buck's not here to make fun of him… as if on command, something lumpy hardens in his chest. He misses home. 

Nat's red hair catches his eye and the lump quivers. On the one hand he's grateful that the people here are so different from his old friends, because the sight of this Natasha brings him back to the present. On the other hand, he's back to the present and the shoes. 

Oh. 

Clint's here. Steve can't help but smile. It's okay to, just for tonight, because now he's wearing a mask and if he really wants, he can drop his voice enough that he won't sound like himself. Maybe he can catch a dance. 

No. No daydreaming. That's dangerous territory. He'll just stay away but observe from a distance without the fear of being discovered. A better plan, indeed. 

Maybe a closer distance. Steve drifts, mind on Clint, wondering why Nat insisted he come here to mingle with these people. They're not her crowd, not Clint's either, but still. "Free booze," she said that morning. "Maybe you get drunk enough to strip, then maybe we get more money and maybe you get laid." Steve laughed and said no, but then Nat added the magic words, "Ten bucks you can't even get one phone number," and he caved. Ten points to Nat for exploiting his inability to refuse a bet. 

Man, if only she knew. Steve shakes his head with a huff, shoves his hands in his pants pockets. Clint's right there, standing with his back to Steve, and damn, his shoulders look amazing under that jacket. He takes one step closer—

Instead of cement, the sole of his shoe meets empty space, then water, and the rest of his body follows. It happens so fast, that he doesn't manage to react before the freezing water envelopes him. 

Suddenly he's in the Valkyrie, sinking, being swallowed by darkness and liquid ice. His arms and legs stiffen, his chest constricts. There's no air, only the bright lights of frigid suns shining somewhere in the distance, scattered over the ocean floor like they're waiting for him to join them.

As if they're calling for him, ensnaring him to burn inside the coldness of death. 

Clint's young face comes closer, and closer. His eyes shine, his entire being floating toward Steve. Behind him the suns envelop him in a warm glow, and Steve smiles. If this is the end, it's a nice one. 

Only—

Something  _ yanks _ and pulls and prods and pushes.  

There's a hard surface under his back, a tall shadowed ceiling above. And Clint's beautiful, wet, worried face. 

"Do you think he needs mouth to mouth?" Clint asks someone. He's panting, breaths steaming in between them. 

Steve blinks. From Clint, "Yes." He'd very much like Clint's mouth to his and bites his lip in anticipation. 

"If he can talk, he doesn't," Nat says right before she slides into view.

Just then Clint is whisked away as a celebrated saviour, and in a flurry of movement Steve is wrapped in a blanket. He declines an ambulance, "Really, I'm fine," but by the time he shakes everyone off, he can't find Clint anywhere. 

That water was really cold and Clint jumped in to save him. Into the freezing pool. Something bubbles at the back of his throat, misting his eyes over. He rips his mask off, and rubs the wetness away while that lump from before untangles in his chest. It's not gone, Steve both dreads and wishes to return to his own world, but… 

_ Clint jumped in after him. _ He was willing to get hurt—or worse—and Steve can't let that slide as if it were nothing. It's then that he realizes he'd been gripped by fear, for a very long time, perhaps since he met Clint. He's been terrified to let go of the old life, to be vulnerable again, to  _ try _ .

Not anymore, Steve decides. He's going to give Clint what he wants. Steve wants it, too.

~


	3. Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone o/  
> I'm pretty tired and I might be projecting my own misery. But I do hope you enjoy this one. Again, not beta'd (yet). I tried to catch mistakes, but you know me. Something always slips through.  
> See you all tomorrow!

For a couple of minutes, Clint feels really good about saving that guy from the abominable depths of the pool. People are congratulating him left and right, shaking his hand, taking selfies with him. Nat's steady presence is there, too, guiding him through the crowd and toward the exit. But it's not soon enough, not in this cold air with dripping wet clothes. 

He can feel pressure building behind his eyes, half an hour later, while one of the security guys—Don was it?—drives him home. He has a blanket wrapped around himself, a thin thing which doesn't make a difference over his wet clothes. His toes are numb. Dave, or Don, turns up the heat in the car, making Clint shudder, teeth clattering against each other. By the time he stumbles into the quiet apartment, the dull feeling around his eyes has become a focused weight in the middle of his forehead.

And the shivers. 

Shivers are good, means he's not in shock, and all he has to do now is get warm. Removing the wet clothing is a blessing, rubbing a towel over his chilled skin is even better. At least the apartment is warm. He paws through the medicine cabinet and soon after emerges victorious with the last tablet of ibuprofen for his headache. He wonders where Steve is, but he's too drowsy to care. A pair of sweatpants and a thick sweater later, Clint slides under the comforter, burrowing as deep underneath as he can. 

His last thought before succumbing to sleep is that he doesn't remember what he did with his hearing aids. 

~  

"Nat!" 

Steve pushes through the chattering crowd, intent on catching up with her. He can't find Clint anywhere and Nat's been elusive, too. Until now, that is. She turns, an eyebrow raised in question. 

"Where's Clint?"  

"So you  _ do _ care." 

The way she says it, like the accusation, the trial, and the verdict in one little word, makes him flinch. Is that what Clint thinks? Oh, wait, of course. Heck. Instead of defending himself, he asks, "Is he okay?"

Nat purses her lips and crosses her arms. "I sent him home. And no, not by himself. Someone's driving him. He's idiot. You're idiot, too."

Steve grins at her, relieved, but Nat's sharp nails dig into his arm as she pulls him aside, toward the shadows at the edge of the room. 

"What do you want with Clint, huh?" It's more of a hiss than an actual question, and before Steve can even open his mouth, she squeezes harder, cutting him off. "I know that look. You ignore him and ignore him; but now you take dive and want to go home and be bigger idiot. Hurt him when you change your mind tomorrow. So what do you want?"

Honestly, Steve's taken aback. She's right, and it's all Steve's fault. He wants to say he won't hurt Clint, but nobody can ever make such a promise. People fuck up, and Steve may be a supersoldier, but he's just a guy underneath. He wants… 

"I wanna be there for him, make him happy, if I can."

Nat scowls. "Da? When he loses last of his hearing, you will be there then? What about when he gets ear infections? And throws up all day when is flu season? 'Cos he always catches it. What if he can't get out of bed because he doesn't think he's worth it? You know him for little while. He is not easy."

"He's worth it," Steve rasps. 

"What?"

"He's worth it," he repeats, this time louder. "How could he think otherwise?"

"Sometimes his head tricks him," Nat says, tapping at her temple. "He's not depressed or suicidal, but bad thoughts happen sometimes. He deserves support."

Of course he does. Clint's the kind of guy who dives into freezing dark pools and rescues animals and makes sandwiches for the broke college kid down the hall. 

"I know bad thoughts." He's not sure why he's telling her this, but she looks like she doesn't believe him. How can she, when she doesn't actually know Steve? So he continues, pries open a corner of the metaphorical mask. "Look, I used to be very sick when I was a kid. Had asthma, among other things, and there were nights when I didn't know if I would see the morning. Sometimes wished I wouldn't. You understand?" 

She's frowning now, but she isn't mad anymore. She's studying him. 

"I can take care of him." 

It comes out wispier than intended, because can he? Really? He used to be on the receiving end of Bucky's ministrations, so can he switch roles? Would being the patient make him more sensitive to Clint's needs? Suddenly, he's not so sure, but he keeps a straight face in front of Nat's scrutiny. 

After a long, stretched out moment, she huffs. "You doubt yourself," she declares. "So think before doing."

Steve blinks and she smacks him on the arm with her free hand. 

"Promise!"

A flash of his friend, his Natasha, the superspy, deadly Black Widow, is visible underneath her concern. It's so vivid, that Steve startles. 

"I promise, okay? I promise."

"Good. Go home."

Nat leaves then, and he draws a shaky breath. What the hell was he thinking? And Clint… Steve had no idea. Clint seemed so  _ unburdened  _ all the time. 

Pain blooms in the center of his chest at these revelations, bringing back the fear. What if he won't be good for Clint? What if he'll make it worse? 

Fuck.

Endless possibilities crowd themselves in his head on the way home, one nastier than the other. He takes the long route, although his suit is still damp and the wind whipping around him as he rides through the streets is chilling his body with each passing hour. But it also numbs that growing, that overflowing  _ hurt _ inside that claws and claws… By the time he parks his bike in front of their building, the sky is not yet bruised with the incoming dawn. 

It's almost 5AM. The apartment is dark when he slips silently inside. 

The door to Clint's room is ajar and he stops to check on him, at least to see he's made it back safely. As expected, Clint is there, bundled in bed. For one glorious moment, Steve's tired mind allows a fantasy to form, about how nice it would be to crawl right in there with him, inside all that warmth. 

He rubs at his gritty eyes and with one arm wrapped around his tight chest, he retreats to his own, cold bed. 

~

Clint wakes stiff in all joints and brushes his teeth with sluggish movements. He only becomes aware of the scratch at the back of his throat when he spoons coffee in the coffee maker and leaves a trail of it all over the counter. He doesn't pay it much mind, more intent on massaging his sore ears. Weird, he didn't fall asleep with his aids in. 

He wants to go back to bed, but he has work to do today, so he watches the coffee drip until there's enough to fill half a mug. He inhales the aroma just as he sucks in a sip— 

He chokes and coughs everything on himself. 

And that's when he finally becomes aware of the pain in his throat. It extends in a dull ache at the base of his nose, and a throbbing pressure inside his ears. 

No. 

Damn it! He fucking  _ hates  _ it when this happens. It always hurts and hurts and nothing fucking helps until it passes on its own. Medicine makes him fuzzy around the edges, but it's not enough to get him to breathe freely, not enough to take away that raw soreness. Soon, every breath will be misery, every swallow a struggle. It's inevitable. All he can hope right now is that the fever won't be too bad and, more importantly, that the coughing won't start. 

The medicine cabinet is empty. 

He drops heavily on the sofa. Why can't he fucking remember to restock it? Why...

Really, he should get up and go to a pharmacy, but he can't make himself move. So he pulls the thin blanket bundled in the corner over his shoulders and tries not to cry. Tears hurt his nose and his throat and make his ears feel like something sharp is piercing them. 

Clint sniffles and curls up tight, closing his eyes. 

~


	4. Fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone o/  
> Last night I worked super late and thus the chapter is a day late. But it's also double the size of the previous chapter, so there is that. Not sure if day 5's chapter is happening today, but if not, then expect it tomorrow.   
> Still not beta'd.  
> Enjoy!

There's something soft and warm on Clint's forehead. It rests there only for a moment, before it moves to his shoulder. It squeezes and rocks him gently, but Clint doesn't want to wake, not yet, and he pats the bed for his pillow to pull over his head. However, nothing is where it should be. Not the pillow, nor the headboard, not even the nightstand. His fingers only encounter more of that soft warmth. 

He forces his eyes to blink open. There's too much light, piercing sharp, and he groans. A shadows falls on his face then, so he tries again. 

Steve is there, glowy around the edges, like an watercolor painting with blurry outlines. He's looking right at Clint, mouth moving, eyebrows knitted with concern, and that's how Clint knows he's dreaming. Steve wouldn't be this close. Wouldn't kneel next to the sofa to see if Clint's okay. Because that's what his lips are forming, words that looks like "are you ok?" and "Clint, you're burning." Maybe Clint's imagining it, but it's a nice thought. Nice dream. 

He curls up closer to the edge of the sofa and... wow. Steve's large hand cradles the back of his head, through his probably gross hair. Clint sniffles and then whines because that makes the pain in his throat and ears swell. 

Steve's mouth moves again, too fast for Clint to process what he's saying, so he reaches out. Traces his bottom lip with his thumb. Steve's cheeks are so pretty when flushed. 

"'s okay, Stevie," he says. Or at least he tries to say. Clint's not sure if his voice is working at all. "Saved a guy from drowning. Water was cold."

Steve's face wrinkles with more worry and it fills Clint with warmth. He talks some more, looking like Nat does when she scolds Clint for being reckless. 

"I don't mind," he tells Steve. Trying to speak hurts his throat, but Steve's gotta stop looking like someone kicked his puppies. "'s gonna pass, 'kay? Would be more worth it if it were you. I'd be sick for you any time."

Something too complicated to decipher happens on Steve's face then. He pulls away and Clint sighs. So much for that dream. Clint draws the blanket over his eyes. 

It's some time later, Clint's not really sure, when Steve's shaking him again. He's back in his field of vision, holding up a notepad. 

"Stay here," it tells Clint in big bold letters. "Be right back."

Okay, Stevie, he's gonna stay there. Where would he go anyway? A weight settles over him, and then nothing else stirs. Clint pulls at the comforter draped over him, burrows his stuffy nose in the blue material there. _ Oh. _ His is purple, and now Clint is really one hundred percent sure he's hallucinating. 

~

The moment Steve realizes that Clint's ill because he jumped after his sorry ass in that freezing water, he panics. Clint's not aware he saved Steve, though, and that's to be analyzed later, because right now he needs to  _ do something _ . It feels like a twisted sort of test that, right after his talk to Nat last night, he's faced with this. But he'll pass it, he decides. He pushes past the panic—past that horrible wheezing noise that accompanies Clint's breathing—and falls back on his training. 

Problem: Clint is sick. Solution: Clint needs medicine. 

The cabinet in the bathroom is empty save for some vitamins and a whole lot of bandaids. 

New problem: get medicine, but also he doesn't know what kind Clint needs or wants. So, new task: gather intel. 

Steve's phone is busted from the impromptu swim he took last night, and Clint's is probably in the same state, but Clint and Natasha—the ones from back home—always insisted on backups. Steve digs one of the burners from the back of his closet. He's already memorized all relevant phone numbers in this world, and for a second he debates between calling Nat or Bobbi. 

Bobbi's less scary. Usually. 

She picks up after four rings. "Hello?"

"Hey, Bobbi, it's Steve. Clint's roommate."

"What's up?"

Steve draws a steadying breath. "Clint caught a cold, and I don't—"

"I'll be right there," she says. 

"No! I mean, that's not why I called."

"Okay?"

"I don't know what drugs to buy," Steve blurts. "Medication!" This is not going well. He rubs at his forehead while Bobbi sounds breathless enough to be laughing. 

"You finally pulled your head out of your ass, huh?"

"What?"

"Nat told me what happened last night," she says and in the background Steve can hear Nat muttering. Bobbi laughs again. "I'm putting you on speaker."

He'd rather not, but he doesn't have a chance to argue against it before Nat's voice comes to the fore. She rattles off stuff to get at the pharmacy, then Bobbi adds what Clint can stomach when he's sick, which isn't much; mostly toast and soup and a sort of a soft, mushy pilaf that Steve's tried before and really liked. The recipe's pinned to the fridge and it's not hard to make. 

"Oh," Bobbi says. "And the tea. It's in a green box, in the cupboard near the fridge."

Steve rumages after it, but then, "It's empty."

"Little Bulgarian store on the corner, you know it?" Nat asks and Steve hums in confirmation. "They have it there."

"Add bits of lemon and honey to it," Bobbi adds.

"Real lemon, not that juice crap," comes from Nat and Steve nods along although they can't see him. 

It's a little hard to breathe. 

"Hey," Bobbi says, softer this time. "You don't have to do this. We can take over, just call us. Nat didn't mean to scare you last night."

Steve pauses. For a moment he feels the need to prove to Bobbi, too, that he's capable of taking care of Clint. The truth is, though, that he should be doing this  _ for Clint _ , not for Bobbi or Nat who, sure, are his friends, but it's Clint who matters here. This thought takes root and something else dawns on him. What the heck would Clint get saddled with if he ends up with Steve?

"I'm wondering..." His voice is more of a rasp than actual sound and he swallows before he manages to continue. "I'm not—I have proble—Is it fair? To weigh him down with my issues? Maybe he won't—It won't be good for him." That last part comes out so quietly, that Steve's not sure he's even said it. 

Nat says something that sounds suspiciously like "idiot," but it's Bobbi who speaks into the mic next. 

"Listen, we don't know why exactly you call yourself Steve Rogers, and no, we don't wanna know your real name. But you chose that for a reason. Cap's a symbol for something that resonates through a lot of people. He's a not a good soldier, but a good man, right?"

Steve's throat closes.

"We figure," Bobbi continues, unaware of how funny that is, saying those same words, "that you must've served somewhere, at some point. We know you go to the vet center every week. Whatever, your past is yours. But, man, haven't you noticed? When you moved in with Clint it felt like a little cloud of misery was following you everywhere. And Clint is naturally inclined to help people."

He licks his lips. What is she saying?

"Steve, he's been taking care of you for  _ months  _ now. Don't tell me you're  _ that _ oblivious."

"I..." he croaks. Tries to clear his throat. 

Bobbi sighs, heavy and long-suffering. "Nat has good intentions, but Clint is stronger than she made him out to be. He can handle you. The question is now: can you handle him? 'Cos then if his weird and your weird are compatible, you could be good for each other."

This is more reassuring than it should be, considering that Clint doesn't know half of what happened to Steve, what could be potentially a danger in the future, both from himself or from others. He can't see Clint from where he's standing at the kitchen counter, there's the back of the sofa between them, but he can hear a soft whine from under the blanket. Steve winces in sympathy and it breaks him out of the stupor. She's right, Steve rekons as he thinks back over the last months. His time here has been bearable because of Clint.

And Clint deserves everything he wants. So if he wants Steve, that's what he'll get. Of course, Steve's in the fortunate position to make this offer. His stomach flips pleasantly. 

"Are you still there?"

"Yeah," Steve finally says. "Was just thinking."

"Good."

"Well, thanks. For… for everything."

"Sure."

They're both silent for a moment, and then Bobbi speaks again. 

"Um, Steve? How'd you get my number?"

"Gotta go, talk later!" He flips the phone closed and hopes she'll forget about it, before grabbing the notepad off the fridge. 

He needs to take a quick shopping trip, and since Clint's aids are nowhere to be found—also Steve figures he might have a hard time wearing them with the cold—alternate methods of communication are required. 

Yeah, he's got this.  _ Mission: Happy Clint _ is a go. 

It's only when he's in the middle of the grocery store does he remember that Clint called him Stevie and something twists inside of him, both hopeful and somber. He hasn't been called that in decades, technically. He hopes that back home, wherever he is hiding, Bucky's safe. 

~

While Steve is gone, Clint manages to drag himself into the bathroom, washes his face and brushes his teeth. It doesn't do much to make him feel better, and he'd really like a shower, but he's already swaying on his feet. Besides, he should go to the pharmacy, sooner rather than later. He gravitates back toward the couch instead of the bedroom, and his eyes fall on the note Steve left. 

Hope spikes sharp and hot through Clint. Is Steve doing what he thinks he is? 

Clint drops on the sofa, with half a mind to call him, but he remembers Nat taking his dripping phone and—huh, maybe she saved his favorite aids, too. He has spares though, the old ones. His ears itch only thinking about them, which makes him even more aware of the throbbing pain going around his head. It feels like it's everywhere. 

The light over the door flashes as Steve comes in, grocery bag dangling off his fingers. 

A series of miraculous things happen then, and Clint watches everything with a vague sense of an out-of-body experience. Steve touches his forehead to check his temperature—there's a thermometer, too, at some point, but Steve's hand feels way better—then makes Clint change his damp clothes. He brings bedding to the sofa and a fresh blanket. Somehow the blue comforter ends up in a bunch on the armchair, and Clint stares at it morosely. 

He dutifully sips from the mug Steve gives him, filled with something hot and deliciously lemony and soothing on the back of his throat. The administration of ear drops would be embarrassing, for a grown man of almost 30, but Steve's touch is gentle and Clint is warm instead of shivery, so he decides he doesn't care. 

And then, as if the good things would never end, Steve bundles him in the dry blanket and draws the Clint-cocoon to his side. It dawns on Clint, through the fuzzy sleepiness of the medicine he's drank, that this is bonafide cuddling, with Steve's arm around Clint's shoulders, Steve's chest right there, like a hot pillow underneath Clint's cheek. It also explains why the comforter was cast aside and Clint smirks at it before closing his eyes. 

~

Steve doesn't say much, but somehow he manages to communicate with Clint all the same. There's gestures and touches and worry on his face. A smile here and there. Clint has drooled on him six times already and Steve waved his apologies away with a wink. He even helped Clint with a couple of critical work emails. 

To say that Clint's happy is an understatement. 

That's why, three days later and pain significantly diminished, he's standing in his bedroom with the spare aids in his palm, as he considers doing something very stupid. 

With a shuddery breath, he shoves the devices in their box and the box at the bottom of the sock drawer. If he has to be sick to have Steve's attention, he'll… he'll pretend. It's not nice, but Clint doesn't want it to end. Who knows when he might have this opportunity again. Who's to say Steve won't decide Clint is super gross while sick and move out when he feels better.

He coughs, and coughs some more, forcefully, until his chest is aching and his head hurts. Only then he shuffles into the kitchen where Steve is stirring soup on the stove, and plasters himself to his side. It feels habitual, the way Steve lifts his arm to make room for Clint. His fingers massage gentle circles at the back of Clint's neck. Clint sighs and snakes his own arm around Steve's freakishly narrow waist. 

Steve's answering grin is fascinating.  

~ 


	5. Futuristic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys  
> I'm super tired, but I made it. Chapter is not beta'd and as you can see I took liberties with prompt interpretation. :)  
> o/

A week later Clint is wallowing in a whole new kind of misery. The guilt of taking advantage of Steve's kindness has been gathering layer by later until, one glorious evening, he has caved under its metaphorical weight. The day has been similar to the ones prior. Steve made them lunch, cleaned the kitchen, fed Clint his tea and then refused another job. Just so he can stay home and watch movies with Clint, he turned down painting an entire two story house which would've brought him a pretty penny. It's not like they have money coming out of their asses, in this economy every little thing matters.

But no. Clint had to go ahead and cost Steve his livelihood.

He's such a moron sometimes.

That first night when Clint was in pain, they fell asleep on the sofa, they woke too stiff in the morning to be worth it. Ever since, Steve has carried Clint to his own bed as soon as he clocked out for the night. For the couple of times he was half aware, it gave him butterflies.

Now, though, Clint feigns slumber and lets himself be tucked in, wishing he could enjoy it, because it would be the last time. He's mostly fine, anyway. A couple of coughs here and there, sniffly nose in the evening, but most of it is gone and Clint cannot continue to do this. He has to end it and his heart breaks a little bit.

He spends the better part of an hour staring at the ceiling and wondering what can he do to make it up to Steve. The answer comes when he remembers about the comicon that starts on Friday. They have a group cosplay that they'll do, but maybe Steve might enjoy it. Nat agrees with Clint's theory that Steve's name is something he picked for himself. Kate and Bobbi are undecided, but this would be the best opportunity to test it. If he can beg the extra ticket out of Kate, then he can slip away quietly for a couple of days, which might give Steve time to forget about how Clint drooled on him—at least a little bit—so that when they see each other again on Friday—if Steve accepts the apology at all—Clint will be able to convince Steve not to move out. It's very simple.

He grabs his shiny new phone and calls Kate.

"Hey, Katie Kate," he says when she picks up.

"Hi! Bobbi told me about—"

"Oh, no," Clint groans and Kate cackles. "It's true, I got sick, he was awesome, I messed up."

"Clint," she says, in that way that is a little disappointed in him and a lot worried for him.

He sighs. "I kinda pretended the cold was worse than it really was?"

Kate huffs and if rolling eyes made a sound, this would be it.

"Actually this is why I'm calling. Is that ticket still available?"

"Bae still refuses to experience FutureCon, so yes," Kate says and in the background America hoots.

After an extended lament interspersed with America's comments, Clint obtains the ticket without additional cost to himself. For a moment, the excitement of the upcoming weekend flares bright. This year Nat has upgraded her Valkyrie costume, Bobbi's acquired an actual Mjolnir prop, and Kate's new Banner jacket changes color from purple to green at the push of a button. Clint runs his fingers over the leather of his long coat, freshly repainted to a better hue. The Revengers are going to look their best this year.

He leaves his ticket and a note on the counter and, before he can change his mind, he hightails it out of there to the safety—and the unavoidable lecture—of Nat and Bobbi's place. It's weird, though, he ponders as he pulls his scarf tighter in the cold night air, that Steve didn't catch his bug. So weird.

~

> _Steve,_
> 
> _So I might've been less sick for the past week._ ~~_It's because_ _See, the thing is_~~ _Please don't ask why._
> 
> _I'm sorry._
> 
> _Here's a FutureCon ticket for you. If you wanna come. It's science meets science fiction meets superheroes._ ~~_Please come._~~ _Just dress like yourself and if anyone asks tell them you're Steve Rogers in casual clothes._ ☺
> 
> _See you there,_
> 
> _Clint._

Steve looks at both sides of the paper, scratches at his head, stares at the note some more. And then, with a long sigh, bangs his head on the cupboard in front of him. He texts Nat.

_'Tell me he's at your place.'_

_'Da,'_ comes back not much later. _'Let him have distance but don't let him push you away. You'll come, yes?'_

 _'I'll come,'_ he writes back.

It's easy, Steve thinks, when Clint's friends seem to share everything instantly and he doesn't have to explain. He doesn't even think he could begin to put into words what it means to him that Clint pretended in order to keep close. Steve didn't mind, not at all, having all these opportunities to shower Clint with long-overdue attention. Even better, Nat's weariness has turned into appreciation sometime in the past week and a half. Now it finally seems that Clint is ready to either back off or take it to the next level.

Steve's not worried.

He really isn't.

That's why he's digging in the duffle at the back of the closet where his suit is hidden, because he _doesn't_ want to impress Clint _at all_. He snorts at himself while he checks the material for blood. There isn't any, only some dust and scuff marks that can be easily fixed with a brush. Genuine cosplay, Steve reckons, and the joke's not lost on him. On the contrary.

The only problem right now, if he really wants to make blow Clint away, is that he doesn't have a helmet. He's discarded his in Sokovia, after being compared with the enemy he's been fighting all his life. Fortunately, the Cap character of this world wears a narrow mask over his eyes.

He searches for instructions, learns that it's called a domino mask, and then tears into one of his blue pillow cases. It's for a good cause. A couple of hours later he murmurs a bittersweet, "Thanks, mom," as he admires his stitchwork.

Yeah. He can pretend to be himself for Clint. Steve shakes his head at the suit and the ridiculousness of it all, but he's thoroughly enjoying himself.

~

If there's something that Steve's fingers will never forget, is the feeling of the shield as he twirls it before snapping it to the magnetic locks on his back. The security staff at the entrance have to pat him down for weapons—setting off the metal detector three times will do that—but they let him pass, shield and all.

Bobbi keeps texting him with their location inside the building while Nat sends him pics of Clint's face. They've been here for a while already, and Steve follows their path through the labyrinth of booths and tables and long lines. He takes his time, though, gawks at a space station scale model, then at some AI that rivals JARVIS. Further along there's a myriad of robotics booths and Steve loses himself in exploring the area.

It's when he reaches the fiction part of the event that he starts getting comments. Opinions are divided, from "Sick shield, dude," to "That's not the right shade of blue," and even "You're too tall, man."

On one memorable occasion, a pair wearing costumes of Peggy and Bucky flank him for an impromptu photo session. Steve doesn't let himself get dragged into the past and ends up grinning so much that onlookers start complaining that he's too happy to cosplay Cap. Steve bows, graciously flipping them off, then saunters away to find Clint.

~


	6. Hate (that turns to love) at first sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone o/  
> Yep, it's a week later. Work has been... tough. Trying to regain balance and sleep off the exhaustion. Here's the next chapter. I took some liberties with interpreting the prompt. :) It's not beta'd (yet), so if you see some super weird typo let me know.  
> Hopefully the last chapter won't take another week, I'm going back to writing after posting this, but it's also going to be longer so I can't promise it will be done today.  
> Enjoy!

Steve is elated as he treks through the crowd toward the Mars future missions exhibit. According to Nat's texts, Clint's been dazed enough by the colorful chaos of the convention that he's moved past the mortification of having taken advantage of him—as if he could if Steve wouldn't have wanted to—and into being excited to show off his costume. Steve wonders what it is. He's heard Clint mentioning these Revengers a couple of times, but he never got around to find out which characters they are. He supposes they're  _ some  _ version of this world's Avengers. A comic book version. Hm, maybe he should've joined them when they went to see the movie adaptations at the cinema. For sure there's a Thor character in there, Steve recalls seeing a poster, but the idea of it all had only brought bitter longing, so Steve has been actively ignoring it. Now he's a little grateful that he did so because the prospect of being surprised by Clint's costume adds to the excitement. Soon he's going to find Clint, spill his feelings for him, and maybe even get a kiss. Hopefully. He snickers to himself as he pictures Clint in Thor's attire. Heck, with those arms, no wonder both their suits are sleeveless.

The Mars room is large, cut off from the rest of the floor by heavy drapes all around. The space is dark, enveloped in a red hue. The floor looks like a sandy expanse and all around there are robots and pieces of habitats under spotlights. It's eerie and even though people are roaming about, talking, their voices don't carry. Instead, the sound of the crowd is more of a thrum than a ruckus. It makes the hairs stand on the back of Steve's neck.

Nat and Bobbi are inspecting a disassembled engine. Huh, so Bobbi is wearing Thor. He doesn't recognize Nat's costume. Curiosity piqued, Steve exchanges waves with them as he passes, but doesn't linger. He follows Nat's pointing toward the back, says hello to Kate who reminds him of Bruce for some reason and is surrounded by three grey aliens, and—

That's when he sees it. A glimpse of green and dark long hair and the staff.

Ohgod, the  _ staff _ .

Steve can't even begin to imagine how Loki returned to life and got his hands on the staff again. Did he kill Vision for it? Everyone else? Did New York fall? Has he been keeping Steve and the Avengers—Earth—trapped in a hallucination all this time?

His  _ soul _ drains out of him at the thought, taking his heart along. That heavy lump in his chest is painful, expanded enough that it cuts off Steve's breaths. 

This entire world, this  _ happiness _ has been a lie. 

And Steve  _ hates _ Loki with everything he has for it. 

He might be crying, because everything around him turns blurry and muted, as he rushes through cosplayers—are they even real people—and tackles Loki. It speaks to how much Steve's affected because Loki manages to twist under him, lifts his staff to par the incoming blow. 

Steve's fist goes through it. 

It's so unexpected that he pauses long enough for Loki's knee to connect with his balls and Steve falls back. The brief pain is surprising enough to pull him out of the stupor. 

"What the fuck is  _ wrong  _ with you, asshole?" Loki says, but it's Clint's voice that booms amidst the others in the room. Loki picks up the pieces of the staff. "Do you have any idea how much this costs? If you wanna stage a fight, ask first, don't just jump people."

Steve stares. 

And then stares some more while Loki struggles to his feet. He turns Clint's face at Steve, framed by a long-haired wig, and Steve stands as well, under Clint's glare. His eyes are Clint's sharp blue, his forehead is the same that Steve almost kissed good night when Clint was asleep, and his purple aids are in his ears. Steve's attention is drawn to them as Clint fiddles with one. 

Wait. 

This is Clint, not Loki. 

"You're paying for the damages," Clint says, brandishing the broken staff, which now Steve sees is a prop and not the real thing. 

He blinks mutely, watches Clint check his costume for rips. It's an impressive outfit, very detailed and genuine looking, so much so that Steve took him for the real Loki. 

"Well, say something! Not even an apology? Fuck, I hate you." 

The murmurs around them grow, and next he knows, Clint's kicking at him. Steve surveys their surroundings, looking for an escape to somewhere quiet, away from the crowd, where they can talk. The curtains on the right move slightly with a breeze, enough to mark the presence of a passage there. Steve takes the kick to his shin, allowing Clint to be distracted by it, and grabs one of Clint's wrists. He twists around Clint, and in the following seconds he has Clint caught around the chest, arms secured in his grip. He hefts Clint up, still kicking— _ ouch _ —and slips behind the curtain. There's a small corridor there, dark and stuffy, but at the end is an open door to what seems to be a conference room. Right now its long table and most of the chairs around it are stacked with boxes and exhibit parts, but thankfully there's no one around. The window blinds are only drawn down half way and so the room is a lot brighter. 

Clint shoves at him, yelling, as soon as Steve sets him down. How could he think this was Loki, he wonders now. It's still real. Fuck, everything is still real, and the relief steals his breath, almost makes his knees buckle. Clint's fist travels toward his face and Steve catches it easily. 

"Clint, Clint, it's me," Steve says but it doesn't have an effect. "Calm down."

He almost pokes his eye out in his rush to rip the mask off. 

Clint stills. Blinks fast.

"Steve?"

He doesn't know what exactly he was expecting, but it wasn't Clint's glower to be back full force. 

"You attacked me," Clint says, and it's flat and so wrong that it hurts. 

"I'm sorry, I thought—" He thought what... dammit, how does one go ahead and explain this?

Clint huffs a loud exhale through his nose and turns away. His shoulders slump as he takes a seat in one of the only free chairs. He shakes his head. "Don't. I hate you right now."

All his life Steve was a firm believer that truth is the best course of action. He could invent all the excuses, but he doesn't want to lie to Clint, even if telling the real reason behind his tackle will paint him as certifiably insane in Clint's eyes. He makes his way over, kneels in front of Clint. He counts it as a win when Clint doesn't spin his chair away from Steve, though he does look to the side, eyes set on the windows. Steve grips the edges of the armrests, maybe in an attempt to keep control, maybe to ensure that Clint stays put and listens. The leather of Clint's coat smells like all leather does, and it's earthy and human and not that tingling sensation he got when he fought the real god of mischief. It grounds Steve enough to force the words out of his throat. 

"I thought you were Loki," he says. 

~

Clint is so upset he can't even stand to look at Steve. For one, all the remorse of having pretended to be sick is gone, he's pissed about his broken staff… and he's a little scared, too. Steve subdued him so fast, that Clint's still reeling from it. He's not a big guy, but he's not easy to manhandle either. He can keep his own in a fight, and yet, Steve didn't even break a sweat when he carried Clint in here. 

"I thought you were Loki." 

His hands goe to his aids automatically, as they do when the words he registers don't make sense. But no, they are turned on and in the right position. Steve's looking at him earnestly and more open than Clint's ever seen him. 

"Loki isn't real," he whispers. 

But Steve's lips press in a tight line and Clint already knows what he's going to say. 

"He is to me." The words are shaky.

"Schizofrenia?" Clint asks because that's the first mental illness involving some sort of false beliefs that comes to mind. 

Instead of an answer, Steve's eyes fill and a fat tear slips down his cheek. Just like that, all the anger dissipates, and Clint cups Steve's face, wipes the wetness away. 

"It's okay if it is," he reassures. "I'm not gonna judge. Just need to know so I can help, yeah?"

Steve blinks and sniffles, and when he finally speaks, his voice is breaking hard enough that the aids pick up the inflections.

"Maybe it is," Steve says. "Maybe I wasn't born in the 40s, and maybe I didn't spend seventy years on ice. And maybe Bucky didn't suffer all this time. Maybe this is the real reality and I'm sick. I don't know about all of that anymore."

He takes Clint's hands and cups them between both of his, brings the tips of Clint's fingers to his lips. He breathes, slow and deep, eyes closed, and Clint's unsure of what to say. When Steve looks back up, there's fresh determination on his face. 

"What I know is that I fell in love with you. And I'm sorry I let you believe otherwise. I thought I was protecting you, but... " Steve swallows, the apple of his throat bobbing up and down. "That's what I came here to tell you. I know you weren't really still sick the past few days, and if we're honest about that I was happy to keep pretending."

Clint's heart flips, flutters up his throat, makes his tongue numb and his mouth grin. He's hot, suddenly, probably flushed and beet red to the tops of his ears, but he doesn't care. Steve just said—

They almost crumble into a heap when Clint tips forward for a hug. Steve seems to have magic skills at holding onto Clint because instead of a bruised elbow, Clint is now sitting on Steve's thighs, safe in his tight embrace.

"Do you still hate me?" Steve asks and Clint leans back to look at him. 

He shakes his head. "No, but you owe me a staff."

"I'll replace it," Steve promises. He traces his fingers through Clint's hair, down the shell of his ears. "You got them back."

"Nat saved them," Clint explains. "She kept them in rice. Good thing they still work, they're my favorites."

"They clash with the green." There's a hint of a smirk on Steve's face as he flicks at the lapel of Clint's coat. 

Clint sticks his tongue out at him. 

The brief mirth dissipates, however, and the air between them grows heavy again. In the light of the new discovery about Steve, Clint's feelings haven't abated. Sure, he's still scared, but Steve's illness is not something he wants to shy away from. The least he can do is try.

"Hey, Steve?" Clint asks and Steve hums in response. "Whatever's wrong with your head, we can deal with it. If… if you want me to be there with you."

"I want you to."

That's great and Clint nods, before moving to the other problem looming over a possible shared future. He points at one of his ears. "These won't ever get better, though. Gonna lose all my hearing at some point."  

"We can deal with that, too, if you want me to be there with you," Steve repeats Clint's words back at him. 

It's pulls a laugh out of his tight chest. "That's my line, you freakishly strong asshole."

"But you like me anyway."

Clint  _ loves _ Steve. He's not ready for that particular word, though, so he says, "Yeah, I really do." Steve doesn't push for more. It's amazing and it fills Clint with that direly craved warmth. "Nice suit, by the way."

"Wore it especially for you."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

Clint smiles and Steve smiles and they're leaning closer, closer—

Something loud screeches, painful sound bounces off the walls and pierces everywhere. His skin is on fire and cold, so very cold, even as Steve's body curls around him, shield raised. And then there's sudden light, way too much of it, for only a moment, before it blinks off.

Everything goes dark.

~


	7. Versions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone.  
> Finally the last chapter is done. To avoid spoilers, I put more detailed comments in the end notes. Also there is the Version explanation if you haven't figured it out by then. This is still not beta'd yet, and so I hope I caught all the loose ends (also thanks to weepingnaiad for pointing out that Steve's reaction to Clint in costume wasn't as obvious as I thought about why it happened, so now there's a scene for that too).

When the world rearranges itself around Steve, bringing back awareness, he immediately knows two things. One, Clint is curled up in Steve's embrace, and two, they're not in Kansas anymore. Which is to say, they're not in Clint's world but in one that resembles Steve's because Tony is in the process of powering down the machinery that surrounds them like spotlights on a stage. He's still kneeling, with Clint's head where he pushed it down to be protected by the shield held in the arm that's not gripping onto Clint. The surface they're on is cement and, as the rest of the space slowly comes into focus, Steve realizes they're in the hangar of the new Avengers facility. Natasha is there, and so are Sam and… oh. Clint. His world's Clint, just as Steve remembers him, over a decade older, wrinkles creasing his forehead in worry. The Clint in his arms stirs. 

Crap.

He ducks his own head behind the shield. 

"Clint," he whispers, hoping he's being heard, hoping that whatever Tony did to bring him back home didn't fry Clint's aids. 

"Yeah?" Clint croaks and Steve feels a brief wave of relief. 

"I don't suffer from schizophrenia." 

Clint blinks up at him. "Ngh?" 

"My name is Steve Rogers and I'm Captain America." Before Clint can say anything, Steve pulls them both to their feet and gentles Clint around. "Look."

It would've been more dramatic, Steve rekons, if Sam would touch down just then, instead of being met with the confused looks of Natasha, Tony, Sam, and Clint. Older-Clint. Agent Barton. Hawkeye. 

"Nat?" Clint squeaks. "Where'd you get that costume? And what did you do to your hair? Man, Bobbi's gonna freak." 

Oh, right. The Nat of Clint's world wears her hair in the longest braid Steve's ever seen. She's religious about that hair. The Natasha in front of them, however, shifts slightly, taking a defensive stance. Steve tenses. The others are wary and even though Clint speaks as if his friend were there, his voice shakes. He knows, deep down, that something's off. Steve empathizes, he's been in this exact situation months before. 

"Who are you," Tony asks, "and what the hell are you wearing?"

Clint jumps a little, turns to Tony, and says, "I'm Loki."

Steve mentally facepalms while three things happen in quick succession. Natasha's gun is trained on them, Tony calls a glove of his suit to him, propulsor powering up as he aims at them, and Barton throws a knife. Steve deflects it away from Clint's face with his shield, but then there's an arrow also pointing at them. Sam eyes Steve, then Clint, then Steve again, hand hovering over the grip of his own gun. 

"He's not Loki," Steve says. 

"Yeah?" Barton counters, aim steady. "How do we know that? Is that something we know?"

"Barton!" Steve barks. "Stand down."

"He's wearing my face."

"Can I take your wig off?" Steve asks.

Clint meeps a "yes" from where he's standing in front of him, straight and unmoving in the face of so much danger. And weirdness. Definitely, this entire thing must look so weird to him. Steve is careful not to tug too hard in case the wig is clipped or glued, but if comes off relatively easy. A couple of hairpins fall to the ground, and Clint's head is in his sandy blonde glory again. 

"Guys, meet Clint Barton. Clint, these are the Avengers."

"Like a Revengers spin-off?"

"Who are you calling a spin-off," Tony throws from the side, offended. But he's also lowered the glove and is studying the younger Clint with a raised eyebrow. "Hey, Cap, what's Nathaniel's middle name?"

"Pietro," Steve says. 

The others relax then, save for Barton who's still holding the bow half raised. Footsteps resound from behind them and Steve turns his head enough to see Rhodey, flanked by Vision and Wanda, step closer. 

"I can check," Wanda says and Steve nods briskly.

She nears enough to touch and Clint makes to move away, but Steve wraps an arm around his shoulders. 

"She's not going to hurt you," he says. 

It takes a moment for Clint to give a small okay, and then he watches with equal parts curiosity and caution the red tendrils bleeding from Wanda's fingers toward his forehead. She retreats soon enough, but doesn't step off. Instead, she turns to Steve, waiting, and only does her thing when Steve bows down to give her access to his temple. It tingles. 

"They're telling the truth," Wanda declares.

The sighs of relief that fill the hanger are audible. 

"Welcome home, Steve," Tony says. 

Steve aches. He's missed them so much, that he doesn't think twice before he hugs Tony. And Sam. And each of them, including the older version of Clint. When he's done, they're all standing there, staring at the young Clint. 

"So what's the story there?" Natasha asks.

Steve moves back to Clint's side, takes his hand, intertwining their fingers.

"He's my boyfriend."

~

Clint can't believe his eyes, as he walks behind Steve through whatever this place is. More like Steve drags him along because their hands are still tightly clutching together. Clint's not inclined to let go, ever. Maybe he had a mental breakdown and this is what the inside of his head looks like. A superhero fantasy world where Steve is actually Captain America and Clint himself is a badass archer and there's magic and flying robots. It's a little weird that the money guy Tony Stark would feature to the forefront of Clint's fantasy, though. Maybe Clint is projecting from the times when he wasn't able to make rent or buy food or pay his bills. Maybe his subconscious thinks having a rich friend might help. He snorts at himself just as a door closes behind them. 

Suddenly everything is quiet and he's alone with Steve. They're in a bedroom of some sort, with a desk under the windows, bookshelves lining one wall, a pile of weights in a corner. 

After that declaration earlier, everyone started commenting on it or asking questions. That was when Steve jutted his chin up in that way of his that means he's about to get stubborn, and led Clint away. 

"So..." Clint starts to say, just as Steve rubs at his face with a groan. 

He looks drained and Clint snaps his mouth shut. Instead, he pulls Steve close, wraps his arms around him. Steve grips back. He draws air in what seems like the beginning of a long sigh, and promptly sneezes. They're both covered in a fine dust that shines silvery with the light. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to feel gross now that Clint is aware of it. 

"Sorry," Steve says, rubbing at his nose as he steps back. "We should shower. And change," he adds, eying Clint's attire. 

Clint looks down at himself. "Loki's real then, and I guess he did something horrible to you guys?" 

"He did." Steve drops heavily on the desk chair. "Especially to—He forced Clint to kill a lot of people, many of which were his colleagues. It was a mess."

Clint feels an echoing pain right in the middle of his chest. "I didn't know," he says.

"Why are you dressed like him anyway? Isn't he a villain in your comics?"

"He's more of an anti-hero," Clint explains. "He did some bad stuff when he was younger, but then he sacrificed his own dreams to save the world. I like him because he was able to change and become better." 

Steve looks at him warily. 

"I take it he's not like that here?" Clint asks.

"Not by a long shot. But he's dead, so that's a moot point."

Clint sighs. "Look, Loki's not an entirely redeemable character, but he's evolved into someone better. Just like real people, you know? We're rarely perfect. Everyone fucks up, but I choose to believe there's hope even for the worst of us."

The wariness on Steve's face turns into something brighter. A moment later, Steve's standing in front of Clint again. He tips Clint's chin up, and Clint allows the movement easily, thrumming with anticipation as Steve leans down. 

"I really like this side of you," he says.

And then there's lips on his, a short, barely there kiss, but it's enough. 

"You can take the shower first," Steve tells him. 

Yeah, so they can kiss without the stupid dust and costumes getting in the way. Clint shucks his off without much thought—it's not like they haven't seen each other in their underwear before, not after living together for over seven months. The bathroom is so fancy, Clint almost doesn't figure out how to work the shower. But then the water is awesome in temperature and pressure and Clint wants to live in there forever. He gets out, though, because as tempting as the shower is, the prospect of basking in this new thing with Steve is much more enticing. 

When he returns to the room, Steve's costume—his  _ superhero suit _ —is arranged on what looks to be its special rack and Clint's own is dangling from a hanger hooked onto the open closet door. He watches for a bit as Steve runs a cloth over the leather. He's careful of Clint's work and Clint's stomach squirms with butterflies. 

Steve turns, winks at him after he drags his eyes over Clint's naked chest, and gestures to the closet. "Take whatever you want," he says, then disappears into the bathroom. 

Clint clears his throat, chokes on his own spit, and laughs. 

Everything is so ridiculous, and his sanity is in question, but damn if he's not happy. 

~

As much as Steve wants to stay in his room with Clint, Friday announces that dinner is served and everyone's waiting for them. So, reluctantly, he leads Clint into the living room of their shared quarters. They eat mostly in silence for a few minutes, but next to him Clint fidgets, pokes at his aids a few times until he plucks one out. 

"What's wrong?"

"There's weird static." Clint frowns at the purple bud. 

"Friday," Tony says. 

"On it, boss." 

Clint looks up, searching for the source of Friday's disembodied voice.

"Scanning complete. There's some damage to the noise filters due to the transdimensional transport. A new pair is cooking in the lab. I've enhanced word filtering for English and installed an adaptive translator for five major languages. More dictionaries should be downloadable."

"What?" Clint's voice squeaks. 

"Friday," the older Clint says, "paint them purple."

"Sure thing," Friday returns. "Fifteen minutes until completion."

She goes quiet then, Tony returns to his food, and Steve smiles encouragingly at Clint who looks lost. "Tony's the tech guy," Steve says. "You get used to it after a while."

"But I didn't ask for new aids," Clint whispers. "I can't afford them."

"They're free, pipsqueak," Tony says. "Don't worry about it."

Everyone else nods and mutters agreements and it apparently signals the beginning of conversation because Tony turns to Steve.

"What's the last thing you remember?" 

"Me and Natasha were in New York, returning home from recon in the Sokovia ruins. We met up with Phil for a debrief on the status of the refugees and we all spent the night in the old SHIELD building downtown. The barracks are still usable, or at least they were."

Natasha nods in confirmation. 

"And then?"

"The alarms went off just as we were retreating to our rooms. I went one way, Phil and Natasha the other, and then I woke up on the sidewalk with New Yorkers taking pictures of me. In another world."

Clint squeezes his hand under the table and Steve squeezes back. 

"How long were you there for?" Sam asks now. It's an unusual question, but Steve answers anyway. 

"About ten months. Why? How long has it been here?"

"Ten weeks, give or take a couple of days," Rhodey says. "So time moves differently. Interesting."

"It also explains why it was so hard to pinpoint his location," Tony adds. 

"Guys," Steve interrupts, "what happened to me?"

Vision leans his elbows on the table. "We're… not sure. It wasn't an infinity stone, if that's what you're thinking. Perhaps an artefact in that building sent you across dimensions, but whatever it was it either depleted its power, or it went over there with you."

"How'd you get me back?"

"You left behind a radiation signature that we traced," Rhodey says. "The rest was sciency magic." He and Tony high five each other, clearly satisfied with their work. 

"What about mini-me?" Barton asks then, pointing at his younger self. 

Tony clears his throat and sets his fork down. "There's good news and bad news. Good news is that clearly you two," he waves a finger between the two Clints, "can coexist in the same dimension. Bad news is you're stuck here, kid. We managed to pull Cap back because he's part of this reality, but we can't even begin to comprehend how to send someone somewhere else. Even if we had the power we need, and by some miracle we'd be able to open a gate to another world, we can never be sure we'd send you to yours and not some hell dimension where you'd disintegrate on arrival."

Clint bites his lip, eyes wide, and Steve knows immediately what he's thinking about. Nat and Bobbi and Kate and everything else he's left behind at home.  

"I'm sorry," Steve tells him, but it sounds so fake, he cringes. He's an awful person for being happy that Clint can't leave, and yet he can't find it in himself to fully regret that Clint's here with him. 

The scrape of the chair against the floor is loud when Clint stands up. He walks fast, out through the open terrace door.

"Aren't you going after him?" Sam asks.

His aids, both of them, are a purple stain on the surface of the table, and Steve picks them up. "He doesn't want to talk right now."

"No, he doesn't," Barton agrees quietly.

~

It's not much later that the new aids are finished. Tony and Rhodey pat him on the shoulder as they retreat to the lab, Wanda tells him, "It's good to have you back," before leaving. Vision joins her. Barton—he honestly can't think of the older Clint as simply Clint anymore—snatches the new aids and walks out on the terrace. From where he's sitting Steve can only see Clint's elbow. Steve is left with Sam and Natasha, but Natasha is leaning against the doorframe to outside, just out of sight, her attention on whatever Barton is telling Clint. 

Steve sighs and Sam pinches his ear. 

"Hey!"

"Spill," Sam says. "How'd that happen?" He points vaguely to where Clint is. 

"It just started. We barely even kissed. Once."

Sam shakes his head, like there's a joke there on his lips, and Steve relaxes. He finds it easy, then, to tell Sam everything—meeting Clint, being roommates, the utter longing. He gives more details to the events of the past couple of weeks because this is when things have come to a head between them. When he recalls what happened at the comicon, he realizes that it was just this morning. 

"It's been a hell of a long day." 

By now Natasha's moved outside as well, joining the other two. Sam watches him with a narrow gaze.

"What?" Steve asks, suddenly self-conscious. He wipes at his chin, and Sam rolls his eyes.

"You don't have food on you, I was just curious about something."

Steve's eyebrows twitch in a silent go-ahead. 

"We both know how quickly you impart judgement—"

"Hey, now!"

Sam lifts a hand, palm forward. "No, let me finish. We both know that, but, man, you're not usually  _ this  _ fast to jump to conclusions. And not very  _ wrong _ ones. What happened to you out there that you saw Clint and the first plausible thought through your mind was: this is definitely Loki, can't be anyone else whatsoever in a sea of people in costumes."

"I don't know." Steve shrugs, but he does know why. Only it's not something he wants to dissect, because what does that say about him?

However, Sam doesn't buy it, given by the way he purses his lips. Steve loves him for being the sort of friend who doesn't take kindly to his bullshit. Their impromptu staring battle lasts mere seconds before Steve caves. Maybe he does need to talk about it.

He huffs and leans back in his chair. "It was too good to be true, okay?" 

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—" 

Steve scratches at his head, rubs at his eyes, scratches his cheek. Sam kicks his shin.

"I mean everything good in my life turns to crap. Mom was gone, then Bucky went to the front. And then I got the serum but they stuck me on a stage like a monkey. I thought I found something real with the commandos but then Buck—" Steve stops to clear his throat. "I wasn't even allowed to keep my death, and after all that sacrifice, after being on ice for decades, I come back to what? More nazis than ever." 

He pushes at his plate angrily. Sam's hand is warm on the back of his neck. 

"Over there," Steve continues, chin tipping toward the terrace, "things were different. Still crappy, because people are assholes, but different. And Clint..." He looks at Sam then, willing him to understand without Steve having to explain because he can't put into words what Clint means to him. 

Sam nods. 

"I kept waiting for something to happen, the other shoe to drop, you know? I denied myself starting a relationship with him because it would get taken away anyhow. And then—the  _ moment _ I decide to take action,  _ Loki _ appears. You tell me what you would've thought."

There are tears in his eyes now, and he can't hold them back. 

Sam hands him a napkin. "He couldn't have been the only person in a Loki costume, man." 

Steve shakes his head. He feels so stupid. "I didn't see another. Or I didn't notice. I don't know anymore." He blows his nose. Heck. Crying twice in one day. He's some superhero. On top of everything, "I can't even make myself feel sorry that Clint's stuck here. Fuck my life."

"Okay," Sam says quietly before he stands up, pulling at Steve's arm. "Come on, let's go see Tony. If they can't transport people, maybe they can send back a message."

~

Clint really hopes he's not in a parallel universe right now, that instead he's somehow dreaming this whole thing. But a part of him knows it's real, and the other part is actually scared of what would it mean for him to stay here, especially if things don't work out with Steve. What would he even do here? Did the Clint Barton of this world even participate in the Olympics? Do they  _ have _ the Olympics? With a defeated sigh, he sits on one of the two wooden deck chairs adorning the terrace. 

He's… a little numb. There should be a sharp sense of loss at the thought of never seeing Nat and Bobbi and Kate ever again, but instead he feels blank. So he stares at the horizon and breathes. 

Not much later his other self sits on the chair next to his. He extends an open palm holding shiny new aids in his favorite shade of purple, but Clint crosses his arms. He's not in the mood. Other-Clint blinks at him, then makes a talking gesture with his free hand and pushes the devices closer. Clint blinks back. Other-him raises both eyebrows in a "is this how you wanna play it" gesture. 

If they are the same person, they'll end up staying here all night pouting at each other, so Clint takes the aids. Best to get it over with, so he can be alone. 

"Awesome, thanks," Other-Clint says as he pulls out what a piece of glass the rough size of a phone. "I wanna show you something." 

The glass comes to life and oh… it  _ is _ a phone. On the screen a little boy appears, then a little girl, then a baby in a bundle. They all look very happy. Next, a woman, brunette and with a smile so beautiful it stuns Clint. 

"Hi, honey," Other-Clint says. 

Not a picture, but a live feed.

"Hello," the woman greets back. 

"I want you to meet someone," Other-Clint continues. Clint's not sure if he's talking to him or to her. He switches seats, bumping Clint over with his hip, so that both of them are visible in the little rectangle in the corner. "This is Clint. Clint, this is Laura, my wife."

Laura's smile widens. "Hi, Clint," she says and Clint waves back automatically. "Nice to meet you." She seems to be taking this way too easily. 

"Laura knows about you," Other-Clint says, and that explains it.

On the other side of the call, Laura calls for someone off screen. She's turned away, so her words aren't audible, but when she's back, two of the kids are with her. 

"Nathaniel's asleep, but these are Lila and Cooper. Kids, say hi to uncle Clint."

The children twitter their greetings, and then Lila asks, "How come we haven't met you before?"

Other-Clint answers and that's good because Clint is still stuck at the uncle part. "He's been away for a long time, but he's back now. We're going to see him often. If he wants to, that is." He nods at Laura and she nods back. Other-Clint ends the call just as she's wrangling them to brush their teeth. 

"Listen, kid," Other-Clint says, "I know what it feels like to lose your family. You're me, essentially, and that makes you my blood.  _ Our  _ blood. So if you want us, we could be your family here. Doesn't matter what happens with Steve and the Avengers. I talked to Laura and you'll always be welcome in our home."

Clint swallows. His eyes are probably the size of saucers right now. 

"Besides," Other-Clint says as he claps him on the shoulder. "Should the kids need a transplant, it would be good to have extras." 

He looks dead serious but Clint also knows his own face. He's joking. Clint punches him lightly in the chest. Well, maybe not that lightly, because Other-Clint almost slides off the chair. 

"Why would you spring all that on me at once?" 

"I know me."

"We're different people," Clint counters with a flail. 

"Nah. You overthink things too, until you have all the angles. Then, it's a clear path to the target. I can see it on your face. So here I am, giving you more angles."

"Why would you do that for me?"

This time Clint moves to the other chair and lies down before he answers. "Spare organs." 

He closes his eyes, looking ready to nap right then and there, and Clint takes a moment to mull over what just happened. After the initial shock, the offer warms him to the core. He hugs his legs to his chest, rests his chin on his knees. 

"I always wanted kids."

Other-Clint smiles knowingly. 

"I want to," he admits, so quietly that he's not even sure he's said it out loud. 

The smile grows.

Just then, Natasha walks over. She sits cross legged on the end of Clint's deck chair and extends a hand. 

"Hi, Clint. My name is Natasha and I think we could be friends."

Clint laughs despite himself. He shakes her hand. "It's weird that you don't have an accent. Or that you're not frowning."

Her smirk dims, but her eyes wrinkle at the corners, and that's when the mirth reaches her eyes. She's very different, Clint can see it, even though she wears the same face. 

"Nat's my best friend," he says. 

From the other chair, Other-Clint gestures between them. "See," he tells Natasha, "we're soulmates. In every universe, we find each other."

Natasha rolls her eyes, mutters something in Russian that makes Other-Clint grin. She turns fully to Clint, half irritated and half fond. "Tell me about her," she says. 

~

It's dark when Clint finds his way back to Steve's room. The light is on and Steve's lying on the bed, poking at his transparent phone thing. When he sees Clint, he rolls to his side and pats the mattress next to him. He's still in his day clothes, and on top of the duvet. He looks like he's been waiting. Clint steps closer and then his brain to mouth filter shorts out, because he says, "Bold of you to assume."

Steve closes his eyes. "Please, Clint," he croaks. 

And suddenly, all the weight of the day is back on his shoulders. Natasha and Other-Clint managed to distract him for a little while, but now the immensity of what transpired in the span of less than twenty-four hours is crippling. Clint crawls on the bed, settles down facing Steve. When he finally looks at Clint, his eyes are red. 

"Did you cry again?" If Clint had any more energy, he'd berate himself, but it's too late to beat around the bush. Both of them are too tired for anything else other than bluntness. 

"It doesn't matter," Steve says, but he's wrong. 

"Of course it does. I don't wanna see you sad."

That earns him a smile, small and bitter. Steve's gaze is unfocused between them. "This is all my fault," he says and Clint opens his mouth, but Steve stops him. "No, just, let me—At the charity, when you jumped in the pool, it was to get me. I was the one who fell."

Huh. So Clint's eyes are also unreliable, because he somehow missed Steve under flimsy masks not once, but twice. Sheesh. 

"It was because of me that you got sick," Steve continues, "and because of that you invited me to comicon, and that led to us in that room, and then—" Steve shrugs. He looks as lost as Clint feels. "Do you still want to be with me?"

Clint's surprised by the question, although he shouldn't be. The way the day has unfolded, Clint has been hurt by Steve. First by attacking him and then by stranding him in an alternate reality. He sighs.

"Yeah. Do you?"

Steve finally looks him in the eye. There's hope there and relief. His hand is steady when he grips Clint's. He places a kiss on his knuckles, says, "Yes, Clint," and the smile on his face is now genuine. Good. Clint returns it. 

They stay like that for a while, just being there, next to each other. It's long enough that Clint thinks they might fall asleep if they don't move soon when Steve touches his cheek with his free hand.

"Why aren't  _ you _ crying?"

Clint shrugs. "Must be still in shock. Once that wears off, I'm gonna. For weeks. I'll be angry, too, probably at you even. But hey, you never put up with my bullshit, so I don't expect you to. Right?"

"Right," Steve says, smile back on his face, wider than before.

"There's also gonna be a lot of ass kissing for bringing me here without asking me first."

"I'll be happy to kiss your ass anytime."

"Cheeky."

Steve's almost grinning and it looks good on him. 

"I don't blame you," Clint says. He should say it, that no matter how he will feel in two days or two months, it won't be blame directed at Steve. "I won't. Okay?"

There's a nod and a quiet "Okay" before Steve curls up closer. 

Interesting. Clint pokes at the aid that's not smushed against the pillow, and that's another interesting thing. There's not much static anymore, some sounds are clearer than before, and his ears don't itch, not even when he's laying down on his side. It's nothing near the level of his hearing before he started losing it, but it's an improvement. 

"How are those working for you?" Steve asks. 

"They're great," Clint says, "but you realize these aren't a cure. My ears won't magically get better."

"I know. It's not why Tony gave them to you."

"Why then?"

At this, Steve props himself up on his elbow. He makes to rub at his forehead, but he's still holding onto Clint's hand, so he ends up with Clint's knuckles on his cheek. "Because of the arc reactor and the whole dying thing. He most of all knows what it's like to live with the help of technology, so he does what he can to make sure people have the best there is. He's always tinkering with our gear even when we don't need improvements."

Most of that makes sense and Clint nods in understanding. However, "What's an arc reactor?"

Steve raises an eyebrow. "The thing that powers the Iron Man suit?"

"Yes…?"

"Oh," Steve says with realization. "There is no Iron Man in the comics! We'll show you tomorrow, you're going to love it. Hey, did Clint and Natasha tell you about Hawkeye and Black Widow?"

"No?"

"Their code names."

"Wow. I have so many questio—" The rest of the word is lost in a yawn so big, Clint's jaw creaks. 

"Tomorrow," Steve promises. "We should get some sleep. Do you want me to take you to another bedroom, or..."

"Can I stay with you?"

"Yeah," Steve says and Clint sees it more than hears it. "Yes, please."

~

Teeth brushed and bundled in Steve's soft flannel pj's, Clint reaches for Steve as soon as he joins him under the blanket. 

"You know what we forgot to do?" Clint asks.

"What?"

"This." 

He leans closer and Steve meets him halfway once he figures out what Clint wants. Their lips touch sleepily. It's not world shattering, but, in the wake of all this disparity, it's comforting and theirs, and minty fresh. 

It feels like a beginning. 

~End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got away from me a little and I keep imagining how funny it will be for Clint to discover everything about the new world. It's the MCU universe, by the way, right after Age of Ultron, at a time when the events of Thor Ragnarok haven't happened yet. I'm weak against alternate realities shenanigans.  
> Thank you for reading, enjoy! o/


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